


Spain, 1918

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is disguised as a priest, Crowley is disguised as a nurse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Sickfic, established marriage, spanish influenza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: The second, deadly wave of the Spanish Flu hits Europe in the summer of 1918, and it was not mentioned in the memo Pestilence sent to Above and Below. The world is trying to cope with the Great War and the new pandemic while Heaven and Hell are overcrowded and behind on getting new souls admitted. Aziraphale and Crowley take it upon themselves to try to find the rogue Horseman.--“How do the Horsemen just lose one of their people?”“They don’t report to anyone. It’d be easy to slip out and hide in the middle of a pandemic before anyone noticed he was getting carried away. No one really pays attention to what happens on Earth. Look at us.”Aziraphale twisted the gold band on his ring finger. A year ago they had slipped off to France together and, after a bottle and a half of wine, found a group of young students outside a bar they were leaving. Crowley, wearing a white dress, was asked if she was on her way to her wedding . . . One lanky boy made up a prayer and vows and declared them to be married after they laughed through oui and a kiss.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 77





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> A little background info: the Spanish Influenza pandemic began in the spring of 1918. Initially, it wasn't a cause for concern. But by September/October, it was hitting countries hard. Unfortunately, since countries at war were censoring news about the outbreaks in their newspapers, Spain (who was neutral) was believed to be the source of the flu. Now, it is believed to have started in the U.S. 
> 
> There is evidence, though, that Spain was the first country to have the flu spread to large sectors which caused high mortality rates. So, I've decided to set this story in Spain as they are catching the worst of the second wave during the time this is set. There are also other reasons why I chose to set it in Spain in terms of Good Omens Universe stuff, but you'll have to read to find out. 
> 
> This leans more towards Book!Omens. I'll most likely be tying in things from the show (or, more likely, blurring the lines in my head as I forget what was show and what was book), but Crowley and Aziraphale do look different than Michael Sheen and David Tennant in my head! More character descriptions later, but for right now, it might be nice to know that Crowley appears to be in his very early 30s and Aziraphale is in his late 40s/very early 50s. 
> 
> Also, if you'd like to read more of this story early/see a bit of research that goes int it: check out my Tumblr (mostweakhamlets). I already have a good chunk of this story written and ready to go, but I will be posting here once a week.
> 
> P.S if there are any inaccuracies with medical/historical stuff then let's pretend that it's not there!

“The Americans are calling it the Spanish flu now,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley shook his head. He raised his glass to his lips and drank the harsh wine with a sneer. He didn’t know why they had been drinking all night (or, rather why _he_ had been drinking all evening as Aziraphale’s first glass was mostly untouched). The wine wasn’t very good—it was a cheap red from one of the only markets still open when they returned from their journies to Above and Below that evening. 

There was anxiety filling the bookshop. While Aziraphale had voiced how pleased he was with the lack of customers, he was visibly unsettled to see so few people on the London streets. The city he had always known to be bustling with energy was growing quieter and quieter in the midst of the panic spreading across the globe. 

Crowley had hoped to learn more about the pandemic when he met with Beelzebub. He hoped to bring back news to Aziraphale to try to put an end to the nervous hair-twisting and foot-tapping (while he ignored his own nervous habits). But Beelzebub looked tired for the first time since the plague and said that there was nothing they knew. They pushed a new assignment at Crowley and told him to get back on Earth. Now, Crowley waited for the right time to tell Aziraphale about what the manilla folder said. 

“And what do we make of that?” Crowley mumbled. 

“Humans don’t know what’s going on. They don’t know how their own homes are being affected.”

“The ones at war are censoring the newspapers,” Crowley said. “For morale or something. That’s what my lot said. They asked if I was responsible for it.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I took credit for it.”

“Of course.”

“They don’t have time to check if I actually did. They’re busier than usual—”

“So is Heaven.”

“With all the new people and trying to find—”

“To find Pestilence.”

Aziraphale took a sip of wine, cringed at the taste, and sat his glass on the table. It wasn’t the fine vintage he was used to drinking, but it was going to have to do. Everyone was tightening their belts for the sake of the commotion in Germany, and it only felt fair that Aziraphale do the same. Crowley had yet to follow suit. 

“At least War is behaving—well, as much as War can behave,” Crowley said. “Might be the war of the century, but at least she’s not going rogue and causing a,” Crowley waved his hand, “second wave or whatever they’re calling it.”

“How do the Horsemen just _lose_ one of their people?”

“They don’t report to anyone. It’d be easy to slip out and hide in the middle of a pandemic before anyone noticed he was getting carried away. No one really pays attention to what happens on Earth. Look at us.”

Aziraphale twisted the gold band on his ring finger. A year ago they had slipped off to France together and, after a bottle and a half of wine, found a group of young students outside a bar they were leaving. Crowley, wearing a white dress, was asked if she was on her way to her wedding. The students looked up at her with half-lidded eyes and passed their own wine bottle around between giggles. 

Crowley had looked at Aziraphale and made a comment about _someone_ not committing. Aziraphale had tried sputtering an excuse, but the students booed at him and insisted on them getting married right there. One lanky boy made up a prayer and vows and declared them to be married after they laughed through _oui_ and a kiss. The other students cheered and offered them both a swig of their wine. 

The next morning as they laid in bed with the morning sunlight peeking through their blinds, they decided that that could be enough. It wasn’t a legal marriage by any means, but that meant little. They didn’t truly abide by human laws and ceremonies and so, they bought two golden bands once their heads stopped aching that afternoon. 

“Well, hopefully, they find him in time before the situation gets any worse. The king of Spain falling ill has Pestilence’s name written all over it. I wouldn’t be surprised if more government heads start collapsing or if Spain as a whole has more trouble.”

“I, uh.” Crowley sunk down on the sofa. His chest tightened. “I’m actually assigned to go to Spain in a few days. They want me reporting on the deaths and all that in Madrid and to perform some temptations. Since they’re not in the war, Hell thinks I should be giving them an extra push.”

Aziraphale straightened in his chair. “Spain? That’s wonderful!”

“Why?” Crowley scrunched his nose. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“That’s fine. My dear, I didn’t want to tell you when you were in this state, but I’m to go to Spain next week.”

Crowley sat up, clutching at the edges of the sofa so he wouldn’t fall over in his wine-induced dizziness. “Really?” 

“They said it’s in desperate need of blessings with the new outbreaks and international blame. They didn’t tell me to settle down anywhere, but I’m sure if I were to learn that a certain agent of Hell was in Madrid they’d understand me staying there for an extended time.”

It wasn’t unusual that they would be assigned to the same location at the same time. Their entire purpose on Earth, they had once established, seemed to be to just cancel one another out. It was best for neither of them to carry out their tasks or for one of them to do both. 

“Well, it might be time for a holiday,” Crowley said. 

“We can’t holiday in the middle of all of this. We should do _some_ work at least if we’re both going to be there.”

“No one’s going to know.”

“I’m sure they’ll actually be reading your reports this time, Crowley,” Aziraphale warned. “You won’t be able to fake your way out of this one.”

Crowley grimaced. Aziraphale had a point. If he was supposed to report numbers and act as eyes for Hell, then the chances of Beelzebub skimming his reports would be slim. 

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll do a little work. But, I want to see the beaches at some point.”

“We’ll have plenty of free time once Pestilence calms down. My higher-ups told me this afternoon that they think he’ll reign in his pandemic soon. War is scheduled to stop her mess within the next few months, and he might call off his affair at the same time. Or at the very least, the virus won’t spread as it has been without soldiers moving from country to country.”

Aziraphale didn’t sound like he believed it. No one could predict what the Horsemen did. No one gave them assignments or asked for reports like low-level angels and demons. If Pestilence wanted to keep going, he would. It wasn’t regulation for anyone to confront him. 

Crowley sipped at his wine. The more he had, the less he noticed the stinging flavor on his tongue. His head was fuzzy. 

“You know,” he said, “we could probably look for the bastard ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“If there’s a fuss in Spain right now, Pestilence might be there. Think about it, he finished his influenza spree, then it was silent, and now all of a sudden Spain is being hit with fatal cases in small pockets? There’s not soldiers over there passing it around like the Americans and Brits are doing. It wasn’t a steady rise, either. It just… happened.”

“He usually works quite remote. You really think he’s lingered in one country?”

Thanks to the human need to socialize and their general ignorance of proper sanitation, Pestilence could spend only one day in a city and his most recent disease would spread to the entire country by the end of the week. Crowley saw him _once_ during the plague ordeal. And that was how it usually went. Pestilence would infect one person and move on as his disease steadily spread. 

If he didn’t cause such grotesque suffering and death to the most vulnerable people, Crowley would admire him for his work and be quick to compare it to his own. Humans had a tendency to muck things up on their own. All occult beings needed to do was knock over the first domino, and Crowley could tell when someone was knocking over all of them in one sweep and kicking them across the room.

“To spread it around as fast as he could to a country that isn’t censoring their papers or having their army move around? Yes. You know how much of an ego he has, and he hasn’t been getting any attention in most of Europe. He doesn’t have to fight for the spotlight with War over there. He gets all the headlines and all the hysteria. He’s probably thriving there right about now.”

Aziraphale hummed. “You make a fair point. Those four are really as bad as toddlers at times, aren’t they? Remember the trouble in Ireland? Famine went too far with that one.”

“I’m still convinced the English made it worse on their own.”

“Wouldn’t put it past them.” Aziraphale furrowed his brow, pulling himself back into the topic at hand. “But how do we find Pestilence? He could be anywhere in Spain—if he’s there at all.”

Crowley folded his arms across his chest and sank back into the sofa. “Might have to figure that one out later. Might have to trace death rates or something or where new cases are popping up.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Like one would in a detective novel!”

Crowley smiled. “Exactly.”

“I think we can piece it together once we’re both sober. I’m sure the humans are keeping records of everything. We could make copies and look at the newspapers. We could probably find ourselves in a hospital occasionally and look around.”

“Or we could always be in the hospitals. Beelzebub told me that they’re getting overwhelmed. That’d be perfect for both of us. I could tempt the staff, put doubt in their minds and whatnot. And you can do your blessings from there. And then, we would have records and gossip, and we could narrow down where the bastard is.”

“I could pose as a priest. I’m sure there’s a need for them in hospitals. What would you do, dear? Pose as a doctor?”

“I was thinking a nurse.” Crowley wiggled in his seat, pulling his legs up under him. He was getting sleepy from the wine. “I’d be with more patients. I could scope out more of the hospital that way.”

“You’d make quite a charming nurse.”

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale looked at the clock on his desk. Crowley propped his head on his fist, blinking lazily at the angel as he began to bustle around the small room. He placed a stopper in the wine bottle and moved it, along with his own glass, onto the shelf that usually held multiple wines and liqueurs. It sat next to a lonely, half-full Moscato. 

“You must be ready to sleep, my dear.” Aziraphale plucked his glass from his hands. “Would you like to stay here?”

Crowley usually didn’t take his chances with staying at the bookshop for too long. Even if they were married by their own standards, they never risked being in each other’s company for longer than 24 hours in case someone was watching. But with the strain Hell was under, Crowley thought that maybe they wouldn’t notice if he spent one more night on Azirphale’s sofa. So, he nodded. 

Aziraphale draped a blanket over him. “Do stretch out, dear, or you’ll be sore in the morning.”

Crowley laid on the sofa, his clothes turning into pajamas. Aziraphale adjusted the blanket around him and swept a loose strand of hair off Crowley’s forehead. These were the tender moments that made Crowley want to go rogue himself and run away with Aziraphale so that every night he could feel the soft, chubby fingers at his temple and light breath on his cheek as Aziraphale kissed him. 

“Have sweet dreams.”

And Crowley would. 


	2. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! As usual, if you'd like to read ahead you can check out my Tumblr (mostweakhamlets)
> 
> A bit of a filler chapter, but I had to put in some domestic fluff.

Crowley rubbed her wedding band with her thumb. Despite the nice weather, the city felt gloomy. The entire continent felt as if there were grey clouds hanging over it waiting to cause a downpour in the humans’ worst moments. Crowley pulled her jacket closer to her torso. 

“What do you think, dear?”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale and realized that he meant the door they were standing in front of. They had been nervous to step inside, and Crowley had wandered to the steel railing of the open corridor to look over the neighborhood. 

The idea of living together had excited them, but they also knew they were risking everything. Heaven and Hell were too distracted to check in on them as they usually did. Like with every pandemic or war, both offices were overwhelmed with new souls. And with the war of all wars and a fatal pandemic running ravage through the world at the same time, there was even more paperwork to file and souls to organize. Crowley had heard that Hell was so packed with damned souls, Beelzebub had allowed lower-level demons to begin torturing. It was unheard of. 

Heaven and Hell wouldn’t notice what Aziraphale and Crowley were up to, but one wrong move would alert their head offices. They’d see that the angel and demon were sharing a scheme to find Pestilence. And sharing a workplace. And an apartment. A bed. 

From there, they didn’t know what would happen. 

“Should we go in?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Might as well. Neighbors might start to think we’re weird.”

Aziraphale smiled and pushed open the door. “Would you allow me to indulge in a human tradition?”

“Sure. What—”

Crowley gasped when she felt her feet no longer underneath her. She pressed her hand to her chest when she was stable, cradled in a pair of strong arms. 

“Angel!”

Aziraphale chuckled and carried her through the threshold. “I always thought it’s very sweet of humans to do that.”

He set Crowley down in the sitting room. Her boots clicked on the bare, hardwood floor and echoed through the empty room. She looked around, noting that it would take a lot of work to make the house look like a home. But it did thrill her a little. She could envision the place after they lived together for a month. Their habits would be exposed, and their work would take up space across every room. She could see Aziraphale’s books filling new shelves and an overstuffed couch for her to take naps on as the sun peaked through the curtains they could hang together. 

“A few miracles, and we’ll have everything in place,” Aziraphale said, following Crowley as she began walking through the house. “And I’m sure we’ll get to know the neighbors soon.”

“We’re not the ‘get to know the neighbors’ sort, angel.”

“I know, but in time like these there’s always a stronger sense of community, isn’t there?” It was more of an observation than a question. “Hopefully, no one will question an old man who married a beautiful, young woman.”

Crowley rolled her eyes but turned her face so Aziraphale wouldn’t see the rising blush on her neck and face. “Really, angel, I’ve let my corporation age a touch.”

It was true. She had let her features show a bit of aging around her eyes and mouth in the past couple of years. It wasn’t enough to be truly noticeable until someone came close (which was hardly ever) and spotted the faint creases that came from too much laughter. Aziraphale had stroked them the first morning he noticed them and had commented that it was such a beautiful way to earn marks on a body. 

“And I was created an entire burst of energy before you,” Crowley said. “I’m the one who married a younger man.”

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face and kissed her nose. “That you did.”

Aziraphale’s cooperation had always looked older than Crowley’s. He had wrinkles and the beginnings of grey at his temples and extra weight that someone could easily attribute to middle-age. It all made him look kind and gentle, and children seemed to be naturally attracted to him—unlike Crowley, who looked just a little off in her proportions to be approachable. 

“Let’s try to settle in for the evening,” Aziraphale said. “We can get ready for tomorrow and do a little unpacking before dinner.”

He took Crowley by the hand and lead her through the sitting room, up the narrow staircase, and into the bedroom where neatly packed boxes and suitcases were waiting to be opened and dug through. They had appeared as soon as Aziraphale and Crowley stepped foot out of London and contained only the essentials. 

Crowley opened one box and began passing aged books to Aziraphale. 

Hours later, Aziraphale stretched and cracked his back with his hands pressed firmly against it his tailbone. He rolled his shoulders and looked to Crowley across the room. She hung her nurse uniform on the closet door, shaking out the wrinkles and stepping back to admire it. While it was a bright white, it was a little tattered. The cuffs were worn, and the apron had loose threads. It looked like what Crowley had assumed a uniform would look like by now with extra shifts and less time to mend the problems or to buy a new uniform. 

Aziraphale’s cassock laid draped over their bed, on top of a quilt Aziraphale had bought for the occasion. 

“How are you doing?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I think I’m done for the night.”

The entire room looked homier. The bed was made, the nightstands held alarm clocks and lamps, boots and clothes filled the closet, and a small rug had been placed in the middle of the room. Crowley had one small, potted plant that she placed on the window sill. She claimed that it livened the place up a bit, and Aziraphale had to agree. The little thing added a special touch of personality. 

“Have you thought about your story?” Crowley asked. 

“What was that?” 

She padded across the room in her stocking feet and sat on the bed, patting the space next to her. “Your story. What are you going to tell everyone?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sat down. “I moved to Spain when I was younger and went to a seminary here. I was relocated to Hospital Universitario Lavapiés to help the hospital chaplain until they’re not so overwhelmed. Usually, I would teach Sunday School and serve Mass, but we all need to make our sacrifices in this time.”

“Cute,” Crowley said. “The Sunday School is a nice touch.”

“What about you story?”

Crowley sighed dramatically. “Met a Spanish man in London. Fell in love and followed him here after his mother died. After a summer romance, we married. I became a nurse, and he’s a stonemason—it was what his father did. We make enough for a humble life together, but that’s all we need. 

“We just moved to Lavapiés a couple of weeks ago once I was hired at this hospital. I’m trying to make it through the pandemic while being calm, but every day it gets harder. I’m worried about my family back home, and my brother who’s in the war. 

“Also, I have an eye condition that makes me sensitive to light.” Crowley gestured to the dark glasses that now rested on the nightstand. “The usual excuse.”

“Wow.”

“Thank you.”

“And what’s your husband’s name?”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked. “Um… I’ll think of that tonight.”

“Alright.”

They sat without speaking for a few moments before Crowley began swinging her legs back and forth over the side of the bed. She looked up at Aziraphale and smiled when he turned to her. 

“Can we make dinner now?” 

“By that do you mean I make dinner and you watch?”

“Yes.” 

Aziraphale put his hand on top of Crowley’s dark hair. “We can make dinner now.” 


	3. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three! Hooray! This chapter features one of my favorite scenes in the entire fic.

Every once-open space in the hospital had old cots filling them. Sheets were hung above one side of the beds, protecting the patients from seeing one another but doing nothing to prevent them from hearing the coughing and retching and moaning of their neighbors. The hallways were full of weeping people, reaching out their weak arms to ask for a drink of water. Nurses pulled covered bodies off beds every hour. Sheets were changed as fast as they could be. Doctors told people to go home if they weren't actively dying in front of them. 

Crowley pulled her mask down to her chin and sunk into a hard chair. She had been told to take a few minutes off her feet by her head nurse. The older woman had jokingly but quite seriously said on Crowley’s first day that she wasn’t very nice at the moment. The hospital was overcrowded, and the staff was overworked. She didn’t have time to be patient with new nurses. 

Crowley liked her. Her name was Isabel Marin, and she told Crowley that she preferred to be addressed as Señora Marin by her nurses. Though, the younger girls told Crowley that she responded to Isabel just the same and that she wasn’t as rough around as the edges as she made herself seem. The pandemic did make her a bit less tolerant of mistakes, though, so it _would_ be best to say on her good side. 

Crowley still liked her. She was tough, and she was strict. But she also allowed Crowley to lay her head on the table in the break room for a few minutes during long shifts. She allowed all nurses to do so as long as they were awake and alert after their power nap.

A young woman, no older than 25, came into the room shortly after Crowley had plopped into her chair. She had dark circles under her eyes and had a handful of grey strands among her otherwise dark, black hair. But her brown eyes were warm and friendly, and Crowley suspected that she and Aziraphale would have gotten along well. 

“You’re the newest nurse, aren’t you?” she asked, pulling down her own mask. “The transfer?”

Crowley nodded. The woman grabbed a small paper cup and filled it water from a metal pitcher. She swallowed it all in a few gulps. Crowley’s tongue was dry and stuck to the top of her mouth. 

“I knew it was you because of the glasses. Everyone’s told me that you always wear them,” the woman said. 

“My eyes are sensitive.” Crowley pushed the small lenses further up her nose. “And the kids like them.”

One five-year-old girl had asked to try them on. Crowley agreed and kept her eyes closed until they were returned to her outstretched hand. She didn’t necessarily have a soft spot for children, but she did always feel particularly bad for them in times of crisis. 

Crowley tried not to dwell on the reason Señora Marin had told her to take a break in the first place. A young toddler, struggling to take breaths alone in his cot, had died as Crowley was trying to urge him to take a few sips of water. The doctor who had looked over the body had said that it was only a matter of time, but it was fortunate that he had succumbed to the disease before it progressed any further and filled his little lungs with any more fluid. Crowley knew better and would most likely see a stern letter from Below and sharp pain down his back and in his hips to remind him that his department didn’t deal with direct deaths. 

That is, if Below even noticed. 

“I like them, too,” the woman said, pulling Crowley out of her thoughts. She stretched her hand out. “I’m Carmen.”

“I’m Antoinette.” 

Carmen’s eyes lit up as she shook Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale had rolled his eyes when she told him what name she wanted to go by for the humans. He had suggested other names, but Crowley (mostly out of spite) insisted on naming herself after the disgraced queen of France whom she would not confirm if she personally knew or not. 

“That’s pretty,” Carmen said. “Is your family French?” 

“No. Just eccentric English people.” 

“That’s funny. I do love your accent. It reminds me of Father Fell's—do you know our new priest, Father Fell? He’s English as well.”

“I’m not sure we’ve met.”

“He came here a few days before you did. I’d say he’s in his late 40s. Very tall. Yellow, wavy hair.” 

Crowley smiled. “Oh! I think I’ve seen him around. He’s a bit portly?”

Carmen covered her mouth with her hands. “I wouldn’t call him _that,_ but I suppose you _could_ consider him to be.” 

“I’ve spoken to him. Nice fellow.”

 _“Very_ nice. He’s been so helpful with the patients. I swear he’s an angel.”

Crowley couldn’t hold back a burst of laughter. “It’s optimistic of you to believe in angels right now.” 

Carmen’s smile, which had been around since she entered the room, disappeared. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t feel a little abandoned?”

“By who? God?”

Crowley nodded then shrugged. “I may be a bit cynical, but I don’t think God would let this happen to us if They truly cared.”

Carmen was quiet. She twisted her apron in her hands and furrowed her brow together.

“Well,” she said slowly. “It’s like the Book of Job, isn’t it? Whoever is there is just testing us.”

“And all the deaths? Isn’t that extreme?”

“I suppose I’d just say: at least those people get to see Heaven before the rest of us!” Carmen was smiling again. “Things aren’t all so bad. Sure, there’s a pandemic and a war, but think of all the people helping one another! Mr. Fell is here with us now to help deliver last rites and pray with families. And you came to us when you heard we were struggling—which was very kind of you, by the way. But you can’t focus on _only_ the bad things happening. There’s good happening all around us.”

Carmen pulled her mask back up and walked to the door of the break room. Crowley could see that she was smiling again by the way her eyes wrinkled. 

“I’m going back out there. Wish me luck!”

Crowley sneered when she left the room and counted her as a loss. Aziraphale probably got to her first to spread his nauseating optimism and “God is still with you” spiel. 

She eased herself back to her feet, trying to ignore the pain in her heels and ankles and went back into the world of sick people. 

* * *

It was dark when Crowley realized that she was alone. She threw her blankets aside and grabbed her dressing gown, pulling it tight across her body. The floor was cold, but, half-asleep still, she didn’t want to fumble around to find her slippers. 

She was careful not to lose her footing on the stairs to the living room. Through the windows of the sliding doors that cut the bottom floor of the apartment in half, she could see Aziraphale in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting down. 

Crowley pushed open the doors and stepped into the kitchen, the linoleum freezing the soles of her feet upon contact. Aziraphale was hunched over the table, reading and underlining and taking notes on various sheets of paper and manilla folders. His glasses, which he didn’t need but wore anyway, were perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at Crowley or acknowledge her. She was used to it. Aziraphale hardly ever noticed the world around him when he was deep into studying.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked. “This is why we have a study upstairs.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Aziraphale finally looked at her. He pushed his chair back and held his hand out. When Crowley took it, her dainty hand safely held in his large one, he pulled her to his side. 

“It’s late,” she said.

Crowley took a seat on Aziraphale’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on top of his head. His hair tickled her nose. Aziraphale put one hand on her back and the other on her thigh, gently stroking his thumb over the fabric.

“I know,” he said. 

“Have you found anything useful?” she asked. 

“Unfortunately not.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed in deeply against Crowley’s neck. He once said that the scent of her flowery soap was comforting. Like standing out in an open field, far away from any person that could disturb him.

That evening, he had watched her wash her long hair in their bath. She had grinned at him and told him that he could join rather than stare. But Aziraphale adored watching her. Her thin fingers massaged the nape of her neck. She tilted her head and worked her shampoo down to the very end of her hair before dipping her entire body back into the bathwater like a less tragic Ophelia. 

Her long, black hair fanned out around her. It was what Aziraphale assumed her halo had looked like before she fell. 

“I can’t find any patterns,” he said. 

Crowley eyed the papers, taking in the numbers and the notes in Aziraphale’s neat handwriting. Newspaper clippings were piled with copies of medical reports that had miraculously found themselves in Aziraphale’s bag on his way out of the hospital every day that week. 

“Give up for the night,” Crowley said. “There’s nothing else we can do right now.”

"We don't need to sleep. What else should I be doing?"

"I know we don't need to sleep, but you can't fry your brain looking at all of this for hours. You need to rest somehow."

Crowley kissed the top of Aziraphale's head. Angels and demons _could_ feel exhaustion if they ran themselves into the ground without a break, and Aziraphale would be learning about it very soon if he didn't stop working. Crowley was already feeling the mental and physical consequences of ten-hour workdays. 

She closed her eyes and held Aziraphale a little tighter.

“It would be easier if we could see where death rates were higher, but—” 

“They’re rising everywhere. I know. He’s covering his tracks.”

Crowley sighed. Pestilence, wherever he was now, was much more clever than he was a few centuries ago. 

“I don’t think he’s here anymore. In Spain. The death rates here were bad, but I heard rumors today that Philidelphia, Pennsylvania is seeing the worst of it.” Aziraphale tossed his glasses aside and rubbed his eyes. “Did we waste our time coming here?” 

“No. At the very least, we know that he was here at some point. If he did leave, he might come back if no one else but Spain is openly talking about him. I told you he likes attention.” 

“Maybe we can look at what happened right before everything got so bad, and we can catch the warning signs elsewhere.”

“I think all the warning signs happened long ago. My theory is that if he left, he just wanted to give the Americans a hard time since they missed out on the whole Black Death excitement. When he realizes he has to share the attention with War, he’ll come back to the country his new project is named after. But that's _if_ he left, and I'm still not certain we can be certain that he did. Trust me, angel.”

Aziraphale hummed. Crowley knew Pestilence’s patterns and work ethic better than anyone. She had mapped out his activity during the plague and had always been well-read on how humans were naturally prone to spreading disease. If Pestilence did work for attention and fame, then it would be reasonable that he would be drawn to the countries that were openly talking about him—the countries that War hadn’t been able to get her hands on. 

“It’s all about his ego,” Aziraphale said. 

“That’s all the Horsemen care about.”

Crowley sat up straight, running her hands through Aziraphale’s already messy hair and plucking at a golden wave. It was rare to see Aziraphale look unkempt, and a part of her worried about that. 

“Can I tempt you to come to bed now?” she asked. 

Aziraphale smirked. “Maybe if you ask nicely and say ‘please.’”

“No.” Crowley stood up. “You’re a foul angel for suggesting such a thing.”

“One 'please' and I'll be there in a jiffy.”

“Over my discorporated body,” Crowley called as she left the room. 

Aziraphale put the glasses he didn’t need back on his nose and continued working until the sun crept in through the window and Crowley’s alarm clock rang.


	4. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! another chapter. let me know if you feel like this story is going well. i really don't know anymore. i feel like I'm fucking up with the conflict and characters and everything is just messy. 
> 
> also, as always, shameless self-promo: check out my Tumblr for more updates about this fic

Everything was too much. Too loud and too rough and too bright and too hot. 

Crowley didn’t like how her hair fell against her neck. Her hairpins were pulled too tight against her scalp. Sweat made her dress cling to her arms and chest. She was aware of the hem of her nylons rubbing against the back of her calf. 

She braced the back of a chair, flexing her fingers against the wood. Her head fell forward onto her chest. She closed her eyes. The commotion around didn’t let up. She had thought that maybe with a deep breath, there would be calm again like after a brief, passing storm, and she could embrace the quiet. But the rain and thunder continued beating down on her nerves. 

There a hand at her elbow. A thumb swept over her sleeve. The voice that came with it contradicted the tenderness of the touch. 

“Are you alright?” 

Crowley was fluent in Spanish, but every word in the language escaped him. If she opened her mouth to speak, she feared her first language would come out, and humans never took kindly to others speaking in tongues. And Hell didn’t take kindly to demons being held hostage in churches when they exposed themselves. It was a PR nightmare. 

So, Crowley nodded and straightened to face Señora Marin who scowled at her. 

“Take a minute to collect yourself, and then get back to it. These patients need us. You entered this field for a reason.”

Señora Marin marched off. Her heavy boots hit the floor with thuds that pounded in Crowley’s head. It felt like Hell.

Crowley looked past the orderlies covering the elderly woman in linens. In the distance, Aziraphale was holding the hand of a young man, head bowed. His rosary was clasped in his free hand, and the mask over his mouth moved with a prayer that Crowley couldn’t hear. When he finished, he smiled (Crowley could tell when he smiled even without seeing his mouth. His eyes lit up, and the wrinkles around his eyes creased further) and placed his hand on the head of the man—not even a man, Crowley thought. He was too young to be a man. It could have been a healing miracle. It could have been a nice gesture. It could have been a Catholic tradition (Crowley had stopped keeping up with those long ago). Whatever it was, it was tender. Crowley could feel the phantom comfort Aziraphale’s soft, warm hand on her own forehead. 

Aziraphale rose and caught Crowley’s gaze over the dozens of beds that laid in neat rows up and down the room. His smile to her was half-hearted. His eyes didn't wrinkle as much as they had with the man and he turned away. His usual spunk was gone, and Crowley convinced herself that he was just tired and would perk back up with a tea break. 

Crowley put her hands in her apron pocket, jerking her right arm back when she felt a sting on her fingertips. Another hastily-written letter from Hell, still sizzling from delivery. Another empty threat. Another intern signing Beelzebub’s name. 

While a low-level demon killing a human wasn’t necessarily bad, it wasn’t fantastic. Hell liked to be organized with departments, and there was a lot of messy hoops to jump through before a demon could really be sure that an ordinary human would be one of theirs. A wrongful death could mean Hell losing a soul Heaven. It would be like picking a tomato too early. It would be useless, and it’s not as though you can put tomatoes back on the plant. Sure, you can let them linger in the kitchen to ripen, but it would never get to where it would need to be. 

Killing a human was tricky if the demons didn’t have the soul already secured. And killing without reason or greater purpose wasn’t exactly “evil.” It was wasteful. Under usual circumstances, Crowley would have been called to a meeting two souls ago. She highly doubted that Hell would make a fuss over a few people in the midst of a sudden spike in deaths. It was a surprise they even noticed. 

Throughout the day, Crowley would try reaching out her burnt fingers to Aziraphale, eager to forget the memo and to feel his skin against hers. But “Brother Fell” always had something to do. People to bless. Prayers to recite. Confessions to hear.

Crowley asked if he wanted to eat lunch with her like they usually did, but Aziraphale had an excuse. He had left her at the door of the priests’ office with the other priest raising an eyebrow at her. Carmen told her, as she ate her sandwich and Crowley stirred her soup, that everyone had noticed how close she and Brother Fell were. Carmen, of course, had defended her new friend to tell everyone that they’re just bonding over being English and that Brother Fell is kind to _everyone._ He had even snuck Carmen a biscuit from the hidden priests’ stash when she was cranky at the end of her shift last week. 

Crowley approached Aziraphale during his break and mentioned a son who was asking for a priest to lead him and his ill father in prayer. It seemed urgent, she said. Aziraphale thanked her. Crowley joked to never thank a demon. Aziraphale didn’t respond and walked away.

Crowley came home after Aziraphale, stripping out of her uniform and waiting for Aziraphale to place the usual kiss on her cheek and offer a cup of coffee. They both came later than usual with a tense smile. By this point, Crowley was beginning to think that something was wrong. 

The angel’s emotions were hard to pin as he usually had two settings: kind and sweet or snappy and stubborn. Anything else and Crowley had an easier time reading the emotions of a cucumber. 

If anything were truly bothering him, Crowley reasoned, then he would eventually say something. And in the meantime, she would go on pretending as if everything was normal.

* * *

“How can it be getting worse?” Crowley mumbled. 

She had her feet on Aziraphale’s lap as she laid on the rest of the sofa, holding a newspaper above her face but barely focusing on it. Every blink was getting longer and longer as her eyes felt they were weighed down with a pound of sand. Maybe she would fall asleep with the paper over her face. That was always a nice sleeping position. 

Aziraphale squeezed her ankle. He leaned forward to grab a new file off the coffee table. Every movement felt forced. As if he were willing his body to look natural like they both been forced to do their very first time blending in with humans. 

“If you care about what the humans are saying,” he said, “they think this the peak.” 

Crowley tossed her U.S newspaper to the side. It landed on the carpet with a quiet flutter _._ The headline, _Public Places Ordered Close_ , looked up at her in thick, black ink. She leaned over the side of the sofa and grabbed another paper from her American pile which laid between her Germany pile and her English pile. 

_Germany Accepts U.S Terms of Peace._

“You know how I feel about humans trying to predict this, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I _do_ know _,_ dear. But it doesn’t hurt to be optimistic. And the humans are trying their best to slow it down. I don’t think we should doubt them.”

“I don’t think we should doubt them, either, but I wouldn’t dismiss what Pestilence could still be planning if these armistice talks drag on. But, War is backing off, so the humans might be right. Their reasoning is wrong, but they could be right.” 

Aziraphale stood, knocking Crowley’s legs off of his lap. She sat up. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To the study,” Aziraphale said, gathering his things. 

Crowley tucked her legs under her dress and looked up at her angel. She could see the tense lines of his face as he clenched his jaw. 

“Do you want to make dinner in maybe an hour?” she asked. “I can actually help this time.”

And she didn’t understand why that was the wrong thing to ask, but it apparently was. Aziraphale dropped his folders and papers to the table and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Not particularly,” he snapped. 

Crowley didn’t move. Aziraphale rarely got truly angry, but when he did, Crowley found herself having to rethink everything she had said or done that entire day. It was usually something she did, and Aziraphale struggled with letting problems fester until they built up. 

“Alright,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been trying to work!”

“So have I. I’ve been in this room with you since I got home—”

“Not just today. But this entire time we’ve been here.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “Angel, if you have a problem with something I’m doing, you _have_ to bring it up sooner. You can’t expect me to do anything if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. We’ve talked about this.” 

“It’s not like that.” Aziraphale sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve loved acting as domestic humans these past three weeks. But we have to get serious, and we need to start spending a little less time indulging ourselves. We need to stick with our original plan of looking out for Pestilence.”

“Like good, little angels?” Crowley asked. “Doing nothing but working and being soldiers? If only your archangels could see you now. They would be proud.”

“Maybe angels do tend to have a better work ethic than _some_ creatures.”

“Okay, wait a minute.” Crowley stood and looked up at Aziraphale. He didn’t mean to, but he towered over her. “Where the Hell is this coming from? This morning you were fine. Everything was fine. And now I’m a creature?” 

“I saw you with that woman this afternoon. You sat by her side and a minute later, she was pronounced dead. She didn’t get her last rites.”

The realization of what was wrong hit Crowley like a bucket of ice water. Aziraphale had watched her place her fingers over the woman’s lips and drag her last breath out of her.

“And?” Crowley’s voice was weak. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I’m not an idiot. I know what your duties are here—your duties to Hell. And I know that I can’t expect you to not follow them or your nature, but I do want to know how you’ve managed to stoop so slow.”

_“What?_ ”

“I’ve never known you to play so dirty. Taking people on their death beds. I thought you didn’t kill people. I thought that was above your ranking.”

Crowley feared saying the truth out loud. Sure, telling Azirphale that the death was a matter of mercy rather than malice could put an end to the argument, but speaking about it too much could alert Hell. And he feared Aziraphale cooing over how selfless that had been—or berating her further for being so careless.

“Angel, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m tired and hungry and a bit cold. Do we have to do this right now?”

“You know exactly what I’m referring to. You killed that old woman today. And I have no idea if it was your first or why you would do such a thing. Aren’t they struggling enough? Aren’t the humans already facing enough from Pestilence? Now they need to worry about a demon running loose through a hospital, snatching souls wherever she can?”

He was overdramatic, Crowley knew. He was angry. When things cooled down, she knew that he would realize that Crowley wasn’t doing as much as breathing without thinking deeply about the pros and cons. He would probably whisper something or pass a note, and she would nod, and he would look sympathetic, and everything would be behind them. But for now, getting through to Aziraphale would be dangerous and too difficult. 

“It’s not what you think it is,” Crowley said. “You wouldn’t understand what I did.”

_“Dammit!_ Then make me understand!”

In 6,000 years, Aziraphale had never raised his voice at Crowley. He had always patiently (if a bit terse) explained his grievances with a level voice. But now, Crowley felt Aziraphale’s slightly louder than usual voice strike through her entire body. 

Her throat was tight, and she curled in on herself. Her chest ached, and her stomach churned. Aziraphale immediately loosened his shoulders with guilt heavy on his frame. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.”

“That’s hardly losing your temper,” Crowley said, voice cracking. 

“But it’s not how one speaks to their partner.” 

Crowley rubbed at her eyes. They were heavy with tears, though she refused to let them fall. Internally, she strictly told her tear ducts to hold back anything they were readying to release. 

“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m a demon. I’m much worse than that. I could… pull your feathers out if I really wanted to. Make pillows out of them.” 

She didn’t sound intimidating in the least especially since neither of them believed that Crowley was capable of causing any harm to Aziraphale. Once, she had accidentally elbowed him in the face while climbing down from an absurdly high, rolling ladder in his bookshop. Aziraphale had laughed it off while Crowley fretted over the bruise that immediately formed under his eye. The damage was miracled away, but Crowley had sat for the rest of the evening feeling worse with every passing second. 

She never liked violence which made her a disgrace of a demon as some colleagues said behind her back (and quite often to her face), and she much less liked causing it. Even if it was an accident and a small incident, it made her head fill with spiraling thoughts about Aziraphale one day realizing that she was a demon. Because yes, he did know that Crowley was a demon, but she was always holding her breath for the day that he realized she was a _demon._ That she wasn’t an exception. That she wasn’t really nice under everything and that she, too, had been shaped into an evil, mean being with every trace of angelic grace pulled from her. 

“Dear—”

“Sleep on them every night knowing that I made them from angel down.”

But would it be such a bad thing if Aziraphale opened his eyes and didn’t see Crowley as this “kind” demon? Crowley didn’t need him pushing his ideal version of her. She could be downright cruel if she cared to be. 

“Let’s sit back down and talk about what happened today,” Aziraphale said. He still sounded a bit angry. 

Crowley wiped a trail of snot running from her nose. “No. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m tired, and we have work to do. Like you said.”

“I think we can take a minute to talk.” Aziraphale took her hand and when her burnt fingers dragged across his palm, she gasped and pulled back. “What happened?” 

“Nothing. Just a little damage to my corporation from today.” 

“Let me see. I can heal it.”

“It’s not important. It can’t be healed, anyway.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brows and his already pale cheeks grew white. Crowley regretted saying anything. 

“What do you mean? Crowley, what happened?” 

“It was from a memo Hell sent.” 

“Hell? Do they know what we’ve been up to? What did they want?”

“Everything’s fine.” Crowley looked at her red, irritated fingertips. “Just a regular check-up. Wasn’t even from Beelzebub themselves. That’s why it burned. Interns are shit at finding the right balance of fire and brimstone to send their shit with.”

“I can look at it still.”

Crowley shook her head. Even during a fight, Aziraphale would want to fuss. It was disgusting and inconvenient. She wanted to stay mad at him, but he made it hard. 

“No. I think I’m going to go upstairs and look over these newspapers,” she said. 

Aziraphale helped her bundle the papers up in her arms. They didn’t look at each other, and there were no usual lingering touches. Crowley longed to feel his hand rest on hers just a moment longer than what was necessary. She wanted him to kiss her on the forehead as he had taken to doing. She wanted to cry and tell him that he was truly being selfish that night. 

“Don’t forget to rest,” Aziraphale said as she turned to the stairs. “Go to bed at some point tonight.” 

Crowley forced herself to smile. “You do the same.”

Though, they both knew they wouldn’t be sharing a bed that night. It would have felt impersonal and awkward. Crowley would wake up the next morning, and the left side of the bed wouldn’t be slept in at all. The pillows would be missing an indent, and the sheets would be cool. He would be downstairs, reading and drinking his morning tea. If she were lucky, Crowley would have a cup waiting for her as well. 

But Aziraphale nodded as if to ignore all of that and to tell her that, further in the future, he would fulfill that request. 


	5. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad chapter!

Crowley didn’t like the quiet. She was used to the crowds and noise of Hell and was loud herself. When she laughed, she threw her head back and guffawed. She often grew too loud when she spoke and needed hushed. Silence was foreign to her. It was uncomfortable. 

Aziraphale took his breakfast in the study that morning as he did every morning that week. He smiled at Crowley when she rose from bed, but neither of them said anything beyond a “good morning.” Their morning routines were no longer completed together in the bathroom but rather through small miracles and in separate rooms.

The entire city was quiet. No one ventured out of their homes anymore. It felt like a ghost town. Like everyone had abandoned the city and Crowley had been left to live alone. It was cold and damp and Crowley thought of her apartment in London. 

Carmen greeted her as she always did when they clocked in—with a piece of good news about anything big or small and her eyes wrinkling, indicating a smile under her mask. Crowley acknowledged her but left her to carry the conversation as they grabbed a new pair of rubber gloves and looked at the notes and reports left behind by the night nurses and doctors. 

The hospital felt off like a radio stuck between two stations and all you hear is the garbled music and speech of both overlapping one another. When Crowley began her rounds, she felt a chill down her back and a knot in her gut. It felt spooky, she thought, for lack of a better term. She did her work half-focused on her patients (regardless of how well she checked their temperatures or administered Aspirin, reports and doses would be perfectly accurate) and half-focused on the source of the spooky feeling. 

As the day dragged on, Crowley grew more distracted and felt more unsettled. She thought about looking for Aziraphale and asking if he sensed anything. Surely, he did. He had to. Aziraphale noticed every shift in energy. 

Señora Marin allowed Crowley to take her lunch break early for a cigarette when she saw her shaking hands and what she assumed was a distant gaze behind her sunglasses. Crowley had thanked her and ran off to the back of the hospital to the fresh air. Orderlies went in and out the doors, taking their own smoking breaks and wheeling out bodies on the way to funeral homes and cemeteries. Crowley turned her to back to them. 

She pulled her cigarette case from her smock, putting it between her lips as she struck a match against the building. The cigarette case, silver and shiny with no scratches, was a gift from Aziraphale in the 1850s. It was one of her most treasured items. 

The door swung open behind as she took her first drag. 

The effects of nicotine on a demon were odd. They technically couldn’t be physically dependent on any substance, but the smoke did help Crowley’s nerves as it filled her lungs and ran through her blood. It was enough to keep the spooky feelings at bay. 

“Crowley?” 

She turned around. An older man with grey-tinted skin, freckled with liver spots, and thinning white hair stood in front of her. He wore the usual surgical mask and smock of the doctors. 

“Crowley, is it?” 

But Crowley knew that he wasn’t a doctor.

“We’ve met before, I believe,” he said. 

“1347.” Crowley kept her voice steady. “Sicily, yeah?”

Pestilence pulled his mask down, revealing a brown smile and his dry, crusty lips. “Of course. I remember. Terrible weather that day.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just dropping in. I caught wind that there a few miracles coming out of this hospital, and I thought that as long I was in the city, I should say hello to one of my favorite demons. How’s everyone doing in your area of the afterlife?”

“Terrible.” 

“That’s a shame. I’ve heard that both sides are struggling.”

“It’s not as though you haven’t caused it or, maybe, stop it.” 

“I’m just doing my job.”

“You aren’t, though. You’re _really_ not. I don’t know how in your mind you’ve justified _any_ of this as your job. Humans are losing everything. This isn’t the end times yet.”

“We have our roles, Crowley. You tempt humans for your Lord. My role is to spread disease. I’m doing just that. I don’t get to fluff anything. I was created to cause suffering.” Pestilence hummed. “Although, there have been a few mercy killings here over the past month. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re getting a little confused about what our jobs are.”

Crowley clenched her jaw. She dropped her cigarette on the pavement and let it burn out between her boots. Pestilence continued staring down at her. He wasn’t impressively tall, but it wasn’t hard to be physically intimidating compared to Crowley. Carmen teased her endlessly for looking like a young child next to Father Fell. 

“I think you’re just being selfish because you haven’t gotten enough attention since the turn of the century,” Crowley said. 

“Alright, maybe I am. War got all the headlines during the first outbreak, and humans are wising up about diseases. But this isn’t as off-the-handle as you think it is. It’s been in the works for some time now. There’s something every century. I thought you would have caught on. Remember cholera? And yellow fever? The Third Plague? You haven’t forgotten that one, have you? I just wrapped that project up.” 

Crowley shook her head. “I remember.” 

“I’m just doing my job. Now, I think it’s time you and your little angel friend stop poking around. I’ll finish when I finish.”

“Why don’t you make us?”

“Because you’re nothing more than an annoying housefly. Oh! Just like your little Beelzebub! That was clever of me, wasn’t it?” 

Pestilence stepped forward. He cupped Crowley’s cheek. His fingers were cold and chapped. Crowley jerked away, heels and back hitting the building and jarring her hat. 

“Fuck off!”

“Language, dear.” Pestilence tied his mask back to its rightful place as if it served any purpose. “Go back to playing nurse. Oh, and try to cut down on the smoking. It’s bad for your health.” 

* * *

Aziraphale considered the possibility of a hot dinner as an olive branch. He would have roughly an hour before Crowley trudged through the front door, and in that time he could have a simple meal set out for her. With a glass of wine, as well. Or whiskey. Maybe he’d leave that up to her depending on how poorly her day went (at this point there was no such thing as a “good” day). 

They could have a night off and talk for the first time in a week. Whether or not they talked about their argument didn’t matter to Aziraphale. He just wanted to hear her voice again, directed towards him. He wanted to engage with her and be able to hold her body against his. 

Crowley was laying on the sofa when Aziraphale walked into their apartment. She was curled up on her side, still in her coat and nursing uniform. Her glasses and mask were on the floor as if she hadn’t the strength to lay them on the coffee table a few inches away. Aziraphale stared at her, unable to tell if it was her usual dramatics or if she had been smitten in their home.

“What’s the matter, dearest?” 

In a few steps, Aziraphale was out of his cassock and into his casual suit. He sat on the edge of the sofa, looking down at Crowley. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were glassy. Aziraphale could hear a faint wheeze coming from between her parted lips. 

“I think I have it.”

Her voice was weak. The last time Aziraphale had witnessed her so ill was before she discorporated from consumption in the early 19th century. He had cared for her for a month, watching her get more whithered and less coherent. It wasn’t a pleasant memory even if Crowley did come back after a few months. 

He pressed his knuckles to her forehead. She was burning up. Aziraphale’s heart plummeted to his stomach. 

“You do have a bit of a fever,” he lied. 

“He took all of our stuff.” 

“What’s that?” He stroked her red cheek. 

“Pestilence. All of our work is gone. I checked the study. Everything’s gone.”

Had he been in their apartment? Had Crowley met him? Aziraphale tried steadying his racing heart before had to shut it down altogether. 

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” he said. “Maybe we get you in bed and then we can look for everything when you’re feeling better.”

“No, it’s all gone.” Crowley’s voice broke. “He took every newspaper clipping and folder and scrap of paper we had.”

“Alright. Let’s try not to get worked up. Those weren’t doing us much good anyway, were they?

“They were—” she coughed into her wrist. “They were better than nothing.”

“We’ll just have to rebuild it. It shouldn’t take us long.” Aziraphale stood. “In the meantime, how about we get you comfortable, and we can talk about what happened?”

He picked her up, one arm under her legs and the other behind her back, just like he had the first day in their apartment. She grabbed his waistcoat with her shaking hands and coughed into his breast. 

As Aziraphale laid Crowley in bed, the bedsheets drew back and she was changed into her nightgown. He fixed her hair and tucked an extra quilt around her. She was already so sensitive to the cold being little more than skin and bones, and her nightgown would only protect her so much from the chills of her fever. 

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on her leg. He had a thousand questions to ask her, but forced himself to ask only the important ones. 

“Did you see Pestilence, my dear?”

Crowley nodded. “He was at the hospital.”

If Aziraphale hadn’t been so concerned with avoiding Crowley and kept an eye out like had been a week ago, he could have done something. He didn’t know what he would have done, but it would have been something to prevent Crowley from getting so ill. 

After all this time of looking for Pestilence and they missed their chance to do anything even as _he_ approached _them._ They never really had a place, Aziraphale thought, if they did run into him. He had imagined himself giving Pestilence a stern lecture and showing him the warrior side of an angel’s corporation with Crowley stepping into his true form. It was never going to be anything they could tackle on their own. 

But he missed their chance because he was angry with Crowley. It might have been their only opportunity to do anything about the disease, and Aziraphale blew it. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“He knows what we’ve been up to. He confronted me outside the hospital, and he must have done something to me then.”

“Oh, my dear.” 

“As soon as he left, I felt feverish. I told Señora Marin I wasn’t feeling well, and she told me to go home. But I couldn’t do anything when I saw him. I froze.” 

“Don’t worry about that part. At least we know you were right! He _is_ in Spain.” Aziraphale fidgetted with the blankets with a sigh. “My dearest, you could have come to me when you were ill. I could have found a way to leave with you. I would have told them that you needed to be escorted home as unwell as you are.” 

“But we’re fighting.” 

“ _Oh_.” Crowley could have punched him in the chest with all her demon strength, and it wouldn’t have hurt as bad. “I'm sorry you felt that you couldn’t come to me. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault.” Crowley scrubbed at her eyes. 

“It’s not—”

“I’ve been killing patients.” Crowley sniffed. “And I should have told you that it was out of mercy. I shouldn’t have let you think it was for petty reasons like securing souls.” 

“Oh…” 

Aziraphale had never felt so awful physically or emotionally. He took Crowley’s hand and pressed a kiss into her knuckles. His kind demon. 

“My dear, I should have known better. I know you better than that. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“I’m a demon. What else were you supposed to think about me?”

“That you’re above the thoughtless slaughter of innocent humans. You may be a demon, but you’re not one of _those_ demons. You put salt in the sugar at the hospital. You don’t kill people.”

“You knew the salt was me?”

“Who else would think of something so devilishly annoying?” Aziraphale smiled. “But I wish you would have told me. I would have understood.”

“I couldn’t. You would have thought I was nice.”

“Oh. Being nice isn’t so bad.” 

“That’s not my point.”

“Well, we’ll have to have a long talk later. Go to sleep now.” He kissed her forehead as she closed her eyes. “And dream of whatever you love most.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr to read further ahead!


	6. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6! We're close to being done!

"He could still be there."

"Hush, my dear. You're far too ill to be up."

Aziraphale pushed Crowley's shoulders back down onto the bed, passing his hand over her burning brow. 

"I can go in with you. He could be there, and we'll have to—"

"No. You're staying here. In bed. I'll only be gone for a few hours. Just enough time to get a few things sorted and to look around for Pestilence."

Crowley looked up at him with fever-bright eyes. Through the night, her condition only worsened. Her fever climbed and her coughs settled deep in her chest as she mumbled about looking for Pestilence and him being near. Now, as the sun was beginning to peek into their bedroom, she laid shivering under her blankets and fought to be let up. 

"You'll do us more good here than you can do out there," Aziraphale said. "Besides, I doubt you can even walk on your own, you poor thing."

"I could."

"Let's not test it out. Now, I bet you're feeling tired."

Crowley nodded, blinking heavily. Suddenly, her body was drained of her remaining energy. She slumped against the mattress and looked up at Aziraphale with pitifully mournful eyes. 

"And a nap would be rather nice, wouldn't it? You barely slept at all last night. I’m sure you’re exhausted."

Crowley nodded again. Aziraphale pulled the blankets tight around her. 

"Is there anything you need before I leave?"

"Another blanket."

"Of course, my love."

Aziraphale pulled a blanket from the chest that laid at the foot of the bed. He laid it over Crowley, smoothing out the wrinkles and ensuring it would stay warm. Crowley was never one to retain much heat as evidence by the jackets and jumpers in her wardrobe that she had stolen from the angel over the years. 

Crowley closed her eyes. Her heavy breathing came between her chapped, parted lips. Aziraphale took a seat next to her, the mattress sinking under his weight. He reached for the cold compress he had laid on the nightstand. 

"You have water and tea with honey right next to you," Aziraphale said, laying the cloth over her forehead. "The water will stay cool, and the tea will stay warm. And don't worry, neither will run out. You also have one of my handkerchiefs. You shouldn't need to get up for anything. And when I get home, I'll make you soup by hand. As much as you want. It might warm you up."

Crowley was sound asleep and would be until Aziraphale returned to her side. There was no need for the water or the tea by her head, but Aziraphale hoped that it could give her some comfort to know that he had something prepared for her. 

The sky poured on Aziraphale as soon as he stepped outside. He had once thought that rain was cleansing—a gift from God to wash away impurities. It was around Noah’s time that he really began doubting that She always had good intentions with the rain business. 

He really began doubting Her when the sky opened up on him that morning and dropped rain on top of his head with little warning. Suddenly, the umbrella that had been sitting in the umbrella stand at home was raised over his head. By the time he made it to the hospital, not a single raindrop had managed to stick to his cassock. 

His plan was to be as inconspicuous as possible while poking his nose into every ward. He visited the children and helped families through prayers. He gave last rites and helped nurses hand out aspirin and water (and pocketed a small bottle of the medicine for Crowley that would be replenished later). By lunch, he only saw the regular, tired doctors. 

Crowley, months ago, had briefly sketched what Pestilence looked like from his memory of the Plague. It wasn’t a great sketch, but Aziraphale could put aside his art criticisms to take in the features that were similar to that of an aging, ill man. His backup plan was to simply ask around. 

Aziraphale wrapped biscuits from the tin in the priests’ office in a clean handkerchief and carried them off to the nurses’ break room. He knocked before stepping in, smiling at the exhausted faces who managed to smile back. 

“Can I ask you ladies for a favor?”

“Of course,” they said. 

He laid the handkerchief on their counter. “There’s a doctor I’m looking for, but I’m afraid I don’t know his name. He’s a bit older. Pale. He’s British as well.”

They shook their heads, gathering around to grab a biscuit. Aziraphale knew that if he wanted anything out of the women, he would need to bribe them. And they had praised the biscuits Aziraphale had snuck them before. 

“Sorry, father,” one woman said, dipping her biscuit into her coffee. “I don’t think there’s any British doctors here.” 

“Maybe one could have been hired here recently,” another said. “But I haven’t met him yet.” 

“Señora Marin may know. But if you’d like, we can keep an eye out and let him know that you’re looking for him.”

“Ah. That won’t be necessary. It’s really not that serious. Thank you, ladies.”

They voiced their welcomes and their own thanks for the treats. Aziraphale left, feeling less than optimistic. Pestilence most likely visited the hospital for an hour at most to hunt down Crowley, determined to follow through with his own plans with one member of the demon-angel duo down.

“Father Fell?” 

Aziraphale turned around. Carmen had followed him out, tying her mask over her mouth. He only knew her by the odd meeting and by how Crowley would talk about her—in an annoyed yet fond way. 

“Have you heard anything about Antoinette Crowley? I know that you two are close, and I know that she was sent home yesterday.” 

She looked sad behind her mask. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she wrung her hands together. Aziraphale sighed. 

“I had heard she was a bit unwell,” he said. “I went to her home last night, and the poor thing is quite ill.”

“Oh.”

“She seems to have influenza.”

“Is her husband caring for her? Have they seen anyone?”

“Her husband is caring for her. I’d say he’s doing a fine job at it.”

Aziraphale at least hoped that he was doing an okay job. 

“The poor thing. She’s just barely 30, isn’t she?”

“She is.” 

Carmen closed her eyes. How many young, healthy people had she watched be admitted just to die within days? 

“Today is my last day here, I’m afraid. My parish has called me back to help with funeral services.” A letter would appear on the desk of the hospital’s main priest within a second. “But I will have a day to myself, and I may spend it looking in on her—helping her husband and whatnot.”

Carmen looked like she couldn’t handle any more news. “You’re leaving?”

“Oh, just for the time being. Who knows where I’ll end up in a month’s time. But some families do need me right now.”

Carmen nodded. “You’re a good man, father.”

“Thank you. I try.”

“And, um, about Antionette. Can you do me a favor?” 

“Of course, my dear.”

“Can you tell her that I miss her and that I hope she gets well soon?” 

“I will.”

“And there’s something else. I don’t think she really believes in God.”

Aziraphale smiled. If only she knew. “I think she does. However, I have noticed that there is a difference between believing that God exists and losing all hope that She’s doing what we think is her job. And I think Antionette is in the latter category. A lot of people are feeling a touch abandoned right now.”

“Do you by chance know anything that the rest of us don’t?” 

Aziraphale wished he did. “I don’t.”

“Well, you may have a better connection than I’ve been getting. Can you put a word in that I think we’re all done being tested now? We can go back to normal?” 

He wished that Carmen didn’t believe that all of this was a test. God’s tests were never fair, Aziraphale knew. He had seen enough of them. And that Job fellow really did ruin the humans’ perspective on their suffering. 

Still, there would be something to come from all of this. There had to be. Otherwise, Pestilence wouldn’t be able to run free. 

“I’ll be sure to mention it.”

“And if you’re not too busy.” Carmen brightened a little. “There’s a pair of gloves that I really want from that little shop down the street, but I’m waiting to go on sale. Think you can say a little something about those?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think I can say a little something. I can’t make any promises, though.” 

At that moment, the shopkeeper would realize that the gloves were terribly overpriced and cut the price down. They would be perfectly affordable and ready to be tailored to Carmen’s small hands. 

“Of course, father. I hope you find that doctor.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Carmen walked back into the break room. With a little miracle, no one noticed Aziraphale begin to wander the halls of the hospital for the next hour until his worry for Crowley began gnawing away at him too much to stay any longer. 

The letter on the desk now read that Aziraphale was to transfer back to his church that day. 

* * *

Crowley's eyes stung. Her body felt heavy. And cold. And it _hurt._ Like a glacier had sat on top of her and slowly dragged itself off of her. 

"Are you feeling any better, my love?"

She opened her eyes. It burned. Like when sulfuric acid was poured in her eyes in the 14th century. She could barely focus on the face in front of her, but she could recognize the halo of blond hair. 

What was the question? What was she supposed to feel better than? 

"No."

Aziraphale frowned. He laid the back of his hand on her forehead. Crowley turned away to cough into her pillow, her throat burning worse than her eyes. 

She looked out the window. Her flowers had begun to wilt despite her consistent watering. Maybe it was just getting too cold for them. 

How long had she been asleep? 

“How long have I been here?”

“Where? In bed? Since yesterday evening. Do you remember me helping you here?”

A cold cloth was laid on her brow. She tried turning away from it. It did nothing to help the chill that was creeping under her bedsheets and assaulting her muscles and joints. 

“I do.” 

She could remember walking home from the hospital after Señora Marin tutted at her flushed cheeks. She had been gentle and told Crowley that it would be best if she could go home and rest up for the week. Crowley felt an increasing fever grip her body with every step until she collapsed on the sofa. 

It had started with only a light headache after Pestilence left. 

“Angel.” She tried swatting away his hands that had gripped her shoulders to keep her down in bed. “Where’d he go?” 

“I’m right here, my love. I’m right here.”

“No.”

“I’m here with you.” 

“No, not you. Pestilence. Where is he?”

“We shouldn’t worry about that at the moment. He’ll show his face again eventually.”

“We need to find him.”

“No, we need to make sure you’re recovering. You’re far too ill to be continuing this.”

“You bastard, why don’t you care?”

Crowley didn’t mean it, but her brain was foggy and the filter between her mouth was non-existent. 

Aziraphale’s hands left her shoulders. “Let’s not do this right now, Crowley. You need to rest.”

“But, I _saw_ him. He was there.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t do anything.” 

“I don’t think there was much for you to do.” 

There was so much Crowley could have done. She tried pulling her elbows underneath her. She wanted to get out of bed. She wanted to look for Pestilence. 

“No, no, no. You’re going to sleep.”

And Crowley’s head fell back against her pillows, and she was asleep. 


	7. October

Aziraphale supported Crowley’s hand to her mouth, careful to not spill any soup down the front of her nightgown. She sipped off her spoon and let Aziraphale take it away to fill it again. She wanted some level of independence—she would always be the stubborn devil even in her weakest moments—but after the first mess was made, she allowed Aziraphale to steady her hands as she ate dinner. 

“I’m not hungry anymore, angel.” 

Aziraphale refrained from looking too disappointed. He dropped the spoon into the bowl and set it on the nightstand. 

“You can’t manage a little more? We have bread downstairs if you’d like something different.” 

Crowley shook her head. Her appetite had been slowly recovering as her symptoms eased, but she only took in a few mouthfuls at meals when she could easily devour a full plate a week before. Still, it was progress from a few days ago when even the smell of food made her nauseous. 

“Can we go downstairs?” Crowley asked. “For fresh air?”

“Of course, my dear.”

Aziraphale pulled the bedsheets away from Crowley’s skinny legs and lifted her up. Their daily routine since they had both been at home had become nothing more than alternating the places where Crowley would rest, trying to eat, and sleeping. A lot of sleeping. There was also Aziraphale’s never-ending bottle of aspirin on the nightstand that he coaxed Crowley into taking every so often in hopes that human medicine could work on a not-so-human corporation. 

Aziraphale carried Crowley down the stairs and to their sitting room. He set her in a chair by the window where a small crack allowed the breeze to come through.

“Is this alright?” he asked, tucking a blanket around her shoulders. 

“Perfect.”

He fussed with the blanket until Crowley took his fidgeting hands. In only a week of the virus eating away at her, she had lost enough weight to whither her fingers to little more than bone. Aziraphale rubbed his fingers over her knuckles and looked at her sunken cheeks and exposed collarbones as her loose nightgown slipped down. She never had any weight that she could spare losing. 

“Just sit with me,” she said

Aziraphale did. He pulled up his own armchair and let Crowley take his hand again. Her grasp was weak, and she barely managed to hold anything more than a few fingers. 

“We should probably talk—”

“I’ve already said we can talk about whatever we need to talk about after you’re feeling better.” 

Crowley muffled a cough in her arm. “I’m already feeling better.” 

“I think I should judge that.”

“Angel, I swear—just let me talk. I won’t keel over just because I get a little upset.”

“Is this going to upset you?”

“Angel,  _ please.”  _

“Alright.” Aziraphale squeezed her hand. “What do we need to talk about?”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “I think, first, we should probably talk about how we didn’t speak to each other for a week.” 

“Right. Okay.” 

“I don’t think that was a great move from either of us.” 

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry for thinking the worst of you.” 

“I probably should have told you what was really happening.” Crowley furrowed her eyebrows and shifted in her seat. “I thought I would protect us if you didn’t know I was going against the whole, you know, duties I was given. It was complicated in my head, but I don’t it was that big of a deal. I didn’t want to tell anyone what I was doing in case Hell overheard.”

“We don’t have the luxury of always being honest with one another,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think there was much you could have done differently.” 

“I probably could have thought about handling the argument differently.” 

“I won’t say that you’re wrong there. Well, I promise, in the future, I won’t wildly accuse you of things that aren’t necessarily against your nature. And I’ll keep in mind that we have our differences we can’t always control.” 

“I’ll try to be less awkward about secrets.”

“That’s endearing that you’ll make the effort.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Aziraphale smiled at his poor, stuttering, gangly demon. “Nothing, my love. Now, what else is there to discuss?” 

Crowley looked to her lap. She pulled at the blanket’s tassels. “Pestilence.”

“Ah.” 

Crowley had been right when she said that Pestilence took everything that they had gathered. There wasn’t a single newspaper clipping or document left in their apartment. It was as if none of it had ever existed. Aziraphale packed up their empty folders and journals in the closet next to Crowley’s uniform and his cassock. 

“I don’t think he’s in Spain anymore,” Crowley said.

“I don’t even know how we could tell at this point.” Aziraphale sighed. “Where do we go now?” 

“Home.”

Crowley looked out the window, obviously trying to avoid Aziraphale’s eyes. 

A few raindrops fell beyond their building’s balcony. The sky darkened. The raindrops picked up speed as well as the breeze. It typically didn’t rain often in Madrid, but Aziraphale and Crowley seemed to take the dreary English weather with them. Aziraphale closed the window as soon he saw Crowley shiver, muttering something about “so much for fresh air.” 

“We should give up?” Aziraphale asked. 

“No. Not give up. Just… go home. We can work in England. It’s not like anyone’s less affected by this point.” Crowley shrugged. “I’m tired, angel. I want to go home.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “We’ll get you home, my love.”

They sat together in silence until Crowley began drifting off. All the while, Aziraphale thought about how hopelessly optimistic the whole idea had been. It would be the last time he tried interfering with anyone who could so easily overpower himself and Crowley—which was, essentially, every non-human out there. And even then, there were a few tough humans. 

Of course, within the century, he would defy that previous thought and lend a hand in stopping the literal apocalypse. But looking down at Crowley, weak and tired and beaten, he didn’t want any more danger. He told him himself that he could be happy with his insignificant role in the universe. 

Aziraphale carried Crowley back to bed and tucked her in for the night. 

“Let’s hope that you feel better in the morning, my dear,” he whispered. “And then we’ll find time to get us home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to read more of my works: check out my Tumblr, mostweakhamlets! 
> 
> I hope that this chapter was satisfying even though it is short!


	8. November

Aziraphale smoothed his jumper over his torso, ensuring his tie and shirtsleeves were laying flat underneath. There wasn’t a thread or button out of place. His hair was perfect without a frizzy curl or cowlick to be seen. After he reassured himself that he was well-groomed in the bathroom mirror, he turned to Crowley who was patiently perched on the toilet with a thermometer poking out of her mouth. 

Aziraphale slid it out. “About 38 degrees. That’s better than last night!” 

He kissed Crowley’s forehead. Color was steadily returning to her cheeks, and if Aziraphale had his way, he would ensure that the hollowness in them would be gone soon as well. 

“What are you dressed up for?” Crowley asked. 

“The neighbors’ children are moving in with them today, and I offered to help them.” 

“When did that happen?” 

“Señora Molina was here the other night to borrow tea and aspirin. You were already in bed, and I invited her in for bunuelos and coffee.” 

“Where did you get bunuelos?” 

“I miracled some up. Along with some nice herbal tea for her to take home to her husband. He took ill a few days ago. She told me that their daughter and son-in-law are here to look after them both—help with housework, run errands. I thought that was very kind, so I’m lending them a hand in getting them settled.” 

Crowley crossed her arms and smirked. “Any other plans while you’re over there?”

Aziraphale crossed _his_ arms. “If they just so happen to feel new safety and find good health once I take my leave, then I’m sure that’ll be a complete coincidence.” 

“Sure.”

“Every person helped makes a difference. Now, would you like to rest in the sitting room while I’m gone?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale helped her up and lead her out of the bathroom with a hand on her waist. He laid her against the plump pillows that Aziraphale ensured were the plumpest in all of continental Europe and tucked an equally soft blanket around her legs. 

“What would you like to occupy you? I may be gone for an hour or two.” 

“My book’ll be fine. I’ll probably fall asleep soon.” 

Crowley’s book was in Aziraphale’s hand and then her lap. Then, a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits were on the coffee table. Aziraphale smiled at it and patted Crowley’s knee. 

“In case you get peckish,” he said. “I won’t be gone long. Don’t do anything foolish, my dear.”

“ _You_ don’t do anything foolish, _mi gordito*._ ” 

* * *

Aziraphale huffed as he set down his designated side of the final chest. He straightened up and pressed his hand into his lower back, working out a satisfying crack. 

“I think that’s the last of it,” said Ulises, the son-in-law of the Molinas, as he set down his own side of the chest. “Thank you for helping us.” 

“It’s my pleasure,” Aziraphale said. He turned to the daughter, Eva, as she walked into the room to examine the newly arrived luggage. “I think it’s very sweet of you and your wife to help your family.”

Ulises shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. They’d do the same for us.” 

“Señor Fell, is there anything we can do for you?” Eva asked. “We’d love it if you joined us for lunch.” 

“Oh, no thank you. I should return to Mrs. Fell.” It tickled him to call Crowley by his own (albeit fake) name. 

Señora Molina lead him to the door with a promise to keep his family in her prayers that night. Aziraphale, with a sly smile, promised to do the same for hers. 

The Molinas lived on the ground floor of apartments. It was easy on their old joints, they told Aziraphale the first day he met them. Aziraphale made a joke about his youthful wife insisting on a higher apartment. He told them how she insisted on it being better for noise. There would be no stomping above them or furniture scraping against the floors. Their own noises would be someone else’s problem, she said, though Aziraphale made sure to make their floor soundproof. 

When he stepped out of the apartment, Aziraphale passed an old man loitering under the balconies. He didn’t pay any attention to him until he took two steps past him. 

His stomach flipped. He felt uneasy. He stopped in his tracks and turned towards the old man. He wore a sharp black suit, but the rest of him was pale gray and wrinkly and spotted. And while he looked like an ordinary person, Aziraphale felt something radiating off of him. It wasn’t quite evil. He knew that sensation well from Crowley. But it wasn’t _good._ It was somewhere in between, like a natural uneasiness. Like when one was traveling to a new place for the first time. Or about to meet an old they had lost touch with and feared not having enough conversation material to last the entire coffee date. Whatever the feeling was, it was not human. 

“You must be Pestilence,” Aziraphale said. The man nodded. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“I understand. You must be the Principality Aziraphale.” Aziraphale nodded. “Angels are so pungent. It wasn’t hard to find you at all. You all smell like flowers and honey. Though, you smell a bit like… fried cakes as well. It’s not bad, don’t get me wrong. It’s rather pleasant. But it does make you easy to find.” 

“I’ll let head office know in case we need a disguise.” 

Pestilence looked around the empty street around them. The chill in the air killed the flora, and the disease wiped out all social life. Pestilence admired his work. 

“Would you like to join me on my daily constitutional?” he asked. “I don’t go far. I know you’re looking after Crowley and you wouldn’t want to leave her alone for much longer.” 

Aziraphale clenched his jaw. He wanted to say no and give Pestilence a good talking to (after weeks of thinking about what he would do the horseman, he could never come up with anything harsher than a finger wag). But, as anti-climatic as it sounded, a walk and conversation sounded fine. 

They began to stroll down the wide street, passing a few masked-neighbors on their way. Aziraphale shivered at the breeze as it whipped around them and hoped that Crowley was warm enough and resting well. He imagined her sleeping soundly by now under her blankets, her book fallen to the ground. 

They walked until they reached the center of the neighborhood, usually bustling with flea markets and people. Pestilence stopped and breathed deeply. 

“It’s unusually cold this winter,” he said. 

Aziraphale shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I suppose it is.” 

“Maybe there are a couple of people here expecting a typical London winter.” 

“Perhaps. It might have been useful to look at an almanac before we traveled here.”

Pestilence hummed. The wind whistled in Aziraphale’s ears. 

“You did this,” he said. “You made every major city look like a ghost town.” 

“I’m aware,” Pestilence said. “I don’t know why you and your partner assume that I’m not aware of what I’m the authority on. I know disease better than anyone.” 

Aziraphale huffed. “But do you realize the weight of your actions?”

“I do.” Pestilence turned to him. “But I don’t care, and I think you’re mistaking my apathy for ignorance. I’ll tell you what I told your partner: I’m just doing my job as I’m sure you’re doing yours and she’s doing hers. There’s no black and white here.” 

_“I know.”_ Aziraphale thought to his dear demon. “I know.” 

“Then, I think you should do what’s best and leave me alone. Besides, it’ll get better soon.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “Will it?” 

“The humans know how to handle themselves.” 

Aziraphale had to admit that humans, despite being a step or two behind at every turn of the universe, always managed to climb out on top. Between wars and disease and famine, they managed to keep going. It wasn’t always pretty, but they took care of themselves and each other as a whole better than Aziraphale ever could. 

“I’m planning on retiring soon.” 

“Can horsemen retire?” 

“I think I might be an exception. I think when the time comes for me to be really useful, I won’t be much help.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I’ve been given a tip that humans will discover something soon. In the next decade or so. This is really my last hoorah. Just had to tweak a few things to get some recognition over War.” 

“You made all these people suffer for your last chance for a joyride?” 

“I already told. I’m doing my job.”

They stood in silence for a moment, neither looking at one another and instead looking at the dead city around them. 

“You know, I’m not all that bad. Every plague, every pandemic, it teaches the humans something. Either about themselves or humanity. I’m already seeing it.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t disagree no matter how much he wanted to. He supposed that when humans burned, they did so like a forest fire. Great and mighty and uncontrollable, but they simultaneously rebuilt themselves like shrubbery releasing news seeds only with the intense heat and choking smoke. They burned and then regrew and waited to burn again. 

“I’ll be taking my leave from Spain soon,” Pestilence said. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore. Even now, things are easing up.” 

He held out his hand. Aziraphale took a skittish step back. Pestilence closed his hand into a fist and laughed. 

“Right. Wouldn’t want to spread germs right now,” he said. Give Crowley my best. Who knows, maybe in a century, we can all meet again. Get coffee. Maybe dinner.” 

Pestilence turned on his heel and was gone before Aziraphale could open his mouth to say goodbye.

He looked over the neighborhood. The trees and buildings towered over him, and the streets and sidewalks surrounded him like an ocean. Another breeze knocked against his back and ruffled his hair. Shockingly, he felt no anger. Just hollow. 

“I’m afraid coffee and dinner won’t work for us.”

* * *

* _mi gordito:_ Spanish term of endearment meaning “chubby” or “little fatty.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dying to have Crowley call Aziraphale "mi gordito." When I started this, I was looking up Spanish terms of endearment and knew I had to use the one that lovingly means "chubby" for our soft angel. 
> 
> Almost done! I'm really happy to be done with this fic. It's not my best work, and I'm just happy to have it all written up. Final update will be on the 20th!
> 
> If you'd like to see more of my content, follow me on Tumblr


	9. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! Final chapter! Thank you to everyone who read this and special thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos along the way!

“Will you be warm enough in just your coat, dear?” 

Crowley nodded, though a shiver wracked her body. She tried playing it off and looked away, shifting her weight around. Aziraphale hummed. 

The night before, Crowley had had a dream that the station was totally empty except for herself and heavy fog. She had been looking for Aziraphale, trying to move her limbs enough to run. The fog felt like a thick custard and no matter how hard she tried to fight against it, it slowed her down until she was stuck in one spot, calling out for Aziraphale. She had woken up in a cold sweat so terrible that the angel, whom she was relieved to be right next to her, had feared that her fever returned. 

“I packed a blanket just in case,” Aziraphale bounced one of their suitcases he carried. While most of their belongings would be magically waiting for them back home, they had again packed enough to avoid suspicion while leaving the country. “And I assured we have a private carriage, so you can sleep on the way if you’d like.” 

“I’ll be fine, angel.” 

Crowley shoved her chilled, gloved hands in her pocket. She jerked her left hand back out with a hiss. 

_“Damn.”_

“What is it?” 

“These damn interns,” she mumbled. She reached back into her pocket and pulled out a singed piece of paper. “Can’t send a memo right. Look, they’ve ruined my glove.”

“I’ll buy you new gloves. What does it say?” Aziraphale paused and quickly began correcting himself. “That is if I can know. You don’t need to tell me.” 

Crowley read the memo. It was just like the others. Short message. Scribbled signature from Beelzebub. 

_MEET US AT 2 AM WHEN BACK IN LONDON. WE NEED TO DISCUSS YOUR DEATH TOLLS. WE ARE NOT PLEASED._

“Just usual formalities,” Crowley lied, shoving the paper back in her pocket. “I have a meeting in Hell.”

“Oh. I suppose I’ll be summoned as well sometime soon.” Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve no idea what I’ll tell them about this mess. We didn’t actually accomplish much while we were here.” 

Crowley didn’t know what she was going to say, either. _Sorry I killed a few people while in Madrid rather than actually tempt people like you told me to. Also, I did see Pestilence but don’t worry. I wasn’t competent. I let him get me ill rather than do anything about it because I was pouting over a fight I had with my husband that you don’t know about because he’s an angel._

It probably wouldn’t fly. No matter what Crowley said, Beelzebub would disapprove. She would most likely end up on some variation of probation, closely watched for weeks by some intern who would almost definitely end up burning her further. She would live under a microscope. 

Aziraphale sat his suitcase down and went through the ordeal of checking his pocket watch. Crowley told him again and again to invest in a wristwatch like the rest of Europe, but Aziraphale always insisted that he trusted the handy pocketwatch. He had had it for decades and didn’t need anything new until it broke. Crowley suspected that Aziraphale had been using miracles to keep it running, and she suspected that he would continue to do so for another half-century. 

“Running a bit late,” Aziraphale said. 

In the distance, Crowley could hear a train horn. She imagined Hastur’s head poking out of a window, watching for her and waiting to find a single mistake he could report to Hell. She knew that it was irrational. Hell was still struggling to keep up with new arrivals. There was no way Hell was sending up Dukes. 

“Are you alright?” 

Crowley watched the train pull in. Immediately, people began walking forward and gathering their luggage. The train squealed to a halt, setting Crowley’s teeth on edge. 

“Crowley?” 

She turned to Aziraphale finally. “Yeah?”

“You look pale. Are you feeling alright?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“We don’t have to travel today. We can go back to the flat—”

“I’m _fine_.” 

“Alright.” Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and looked ahead. Crowley couldn’t see under his mask, but she was sure he was frowning at being snapped at. “Let’s go then.” 

He bent down to pick up his suitcase. Walking forward, he mentioned something about hoping to get a cup of coffee once they were situated in their cabin. 

Crowley began to follow him but stopped, her chest tightening. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a pale man lurking on a bench. 

It could have been Hastur after all. Or it could have been Pestilence, ready to take the few remaining ounces of fat out of Crowley’s cheeks and re-filling her lungs with phlegm. Or target Aziraphale this time and make him fall ill just in time to board the ferry. She didn’t care about anything Aziraphale had told her about his meeting with Pestilence. She was sure that he was just waiting to strike the angel. She didn’t believe his mournful story about being phased out of his job. 

Slowly, she turned. 

It was an old man. A younger woman joined him and helped him to his feet. 

“Are you coming, dear?” Aziraphale asked, returning to her side. 

Crowley looked over the crowd around them. Everyone was either climbing off the train or shoving themselves and their belongings on. There were no suspiciously in-human figures waiting for her. 

“You know… It might be best if we start going our separate ways. Just in case someone is watching. Oh, don’t look like that, angel. We knew we couldn’t live like this forever.” 

Aziraphale blinked rapidly. But he nodded. “You’re right.” 

“I’ll join you in a few minutes, yeah?” 

Aziraphale handed Crowley her suitcase. “Don’t wait too long. Wouldn’t want you missing the train.”

Crowley briefly considered returning to the apartment after Aziraphale was safely on board. But, then she imagined her angel manifesting in the apartment, another argument at the tip of his tongue. They were really only taking the human route because Crowley was still too weak for such big miracles that would take her over the Channel. 

Instead, she situated herself behind a large family being herded towards the open doors by overwhelmed parents. One of the little girls—perhaps only 5—began yelling as an older brother tugged on one of her curls. The parents sighed before tearing into harsh scolding and pleads to just get on the train. 

Pleased with herself, Crowley stepped on behind them. She pulled out her ticket and handed it to the guard who had his hand outstretched. 

“Oh… sorry.” 

Her ticket was poking up between a folded sheet of paper. The guard handed it back to her before shoving the ticket at her as well and urged her to move along. 

She began walking through the corridor, trying to wrestle with everything in her hand. The ticket went into her coat pocket, and she unfolded the paper. 

_Be safe, dear. I’ll have a cup of tea waiting for you._

A man shoved past her, knocking her into the wall. With a glare, she ensured that his cabin door wouldn’t open any further than he needed to squeeze in and that his suitcase would open as he tried wrangling it inside. 

She returned to the note, carefully stepping around the man’s arm sticking out into the corridor. 

_And try not to cause any trouble._

What Aziraphale didn’t see wouldn’t hurt him. 


End file.
